Mending The Broken Wing
by Bladesworn
Summary: Less a single story and more a collection of stand-alone vignettes from the world and timeline of The Lay of a Broken Winged Sparrow. Written as inspired, but published by request.
1. A Tempting Offer

A/N: Some explanation is necessary here - as the Lay is written in first-person and entirely from Jaya's perspective, I have no way of exploring things that happen out of her direct experience. Hence this little appendix, for any side stories where inspiration strikes, and allow me to flesh out more of the era of the War of the White Dragon as well as perhaps some tales of the original Lay, with Mishuvel and such. It also allows some cameos on the Asmodian side of the war effort. :D Anything published here in Mending The Broken Wing is considered canon with the storyline of the Lay.

This vignette is inspired by a german fan of the lay called **Sen Cross**, and a pair of characters that when she described them to me, I just _had_ to write something... Published with her permission. Timeline with the Lay is circa Ch.25.

* * *

Carcarron is less a country keep than it is a fortress, and Kaith cannot help but be aware of it.

It is a forbidding structure, the castle at the center of the Twinned Duchy's seat of power; dark stone flecked with shiny black, and when it catches the sun the keep as a whole _gleams_ against the whiteness of the snows that yet surround it, a monument to artful power - an _old_ keep, and one built to withstand sieges as much as the harshnesses of an Asmodian winter. In Ishalgen where he was born, it is already blooming spring, greenery reclaiming the territory it has lost in the colder months, but the thaw will not come for some weeks to Carcarron. It has bred a hardy people, and Kaith sees the evidence of it everywhere as he and his brother are ushered gently through the keep.

Everything is precisely ordered here, a testament to the discipline and love of liege that the men and women here hold for the lord of Carcarron. Multitudes of armories leaned gently against the inner walls are stocked with glittering weaponry and polished armor, well-kept, better guarded; sentries patrolling on the battlements, the upper entrances left blocked by snow, as much to confound the enemy as to ensure that those who are on the wing have the advantage of mobility, even in the closed quarters of the castle. Tents ring the grounds for miles, bivouacked housing for the brave souls that have answered the Dragon's call to arms, each legion laid out in precise lines that keep the tent-city from becoming a tangle of interwoven territories. In the west courtyard, glimpsed from the air on the approach and then again as they follow their escort through the corridors, he can yet hear the sounds of a drilling batallion, sometimes in formation, sometimes in pairs and lines, and when they pass aground they are joined in an utterly chaotic free-for-all that has Erimes fidgeting with the pommel of the sword slung across his back, curls of aether drifting up through his leathers, betraying his longing for the skirmish. The soldiers fight with naked steel, the better to whet their appetite for battle, and Kaith's brother is _aching_ for the slightest invitation to join them.

It is not to be - at least, not yet. Kaith touches Erimes lightly at the elbow, and the young Daeva makes a face, allows his hands to fall away from the hilt of his blade, though his fingers still twitch and flex as he watches the skirmishing over his shoulder when the escorts lead them away. Perhaps later, when their business is concluded.

One does not lightly dismiss the summons of the White Dragon, after all, no matter how politely it is worded.

Aelinian Carcarron, the Dragon himself, is in his office when the escort ushers the brothers in. He stands when they enter, a gentlemanly gesture and a respectful one, previously seated behind a desk of silvery-grey wood, delicate-seeming at a glance, but the desk is as old as the keep, polished smooth, the surface slightly dished from the usage of a thousand lords before the one that currently holds the post. There is much about the presumptive Lord Carcarron that is deceptive; he is slender, for one, but his bearing is dignified, powerful beyond his frame; his height is neither particularly impressive nor particularly lacking, and while he is in fact shorter than either of the brothers he has called to summit, his presence is that of an Asmodian nine feet tall, with the quiet confidence to match. An indigo cast to his skin, eyes the dark azure of twilight skies, black hair in places gone early to white; Kaith does not think them an affectation of vanity, not when he surveys the battle-scars that stripe across Lord Carcarron's nose and mar his brow. Young he is, practically new-Ascended, but a Duchy and the title of its founding duke were accolades given in war; Kaith does not think that the line of Carcarron has allowed its sons and daughters to forget this fact, either.

There is a blade resting in its scabbard, the leather swordbelt slung across the top of the Dragon's horn-backed chair and only the white bone-pommel visible over the top, and when Erimes sees it, Kaith senses more than sees his brother's interest piqued. An immortal in the heart of his own army, yet he keeps his weapons as close as his allies, and closer.

A war-lord in the purest sense of the word, then. Curiouser and curiouser.

"Welcome, gentlemen," says the Dragon, and he indicates with a splay of one taloned hand to the chairs before the grey-wood desk, the other palm rested flat upon what appears to be a sheaf of parchment-papers. "Have a seat, and we'll dispense with the formalities, if it makes you no nevermind. We do not stand upon ceremony here at Carcarron, at least when I can help it. I only beg you hear me out before you ask your questions, which I am sure will be many."

The brothers exchange a glance as they ease themselves down into the chairs; Erimes, habitually careful of his weaponry, is visibly intrigued by the prospect of doing away with as much of the usual noble frivolity as possible. Kaith would sigh, if he thought he could afford it in the presence of Lord Carcarron; certainly if the Dragon wishes to win his brother over to his cause, he is doing a bang-up job of it thusfar.

"My aim here," continues the Dragon once they are all comfortably seated, he himself regaining his chair with a certain absentminded grace before lacing his fingers together in the air before him, elbows on the desk, "is nothing less than a successful assault into the very heart of Elysea, to take Sanctum itself and stamp out the heart of the Elyos resistance." Erimes sucks in an excited breath through his teeth, the blunt statement of his mission more than enough to set an edge in his teeth and a boil to his blood. "It is an ambitious goal, and one that most of Asmodae has held at one point or another in their lives. I believe that I can make it a reality." He leans forward across the desk, quietly impassioned, calm and confident with it; Kaith can almost _feel_ the magnetic pull that the young Daeva has in the earnestness of his words, raw charisma the likes of which the Chanter has never before seen. "You have seen something of the soldiers that have joined the cause; I can tell you with complete honesty that those stationed here at Carcarron are merely a fraction of those pledged to my banner, less than a fifth. And for every hundred mortals under my command, there are _ten_ oathbound Daevas."

"That's -" When Kaith sucks in his breath, it is for an entirely different reason than his brother, for such an army has never been raised before, except beneath the aegis of Asphel-Umbra himself. Even Erimes is startled by the figures, but where the fires of war are beginning to burn in his gaze, glimpsed through the sheaf of his jade-green hair, the Chanter is boggled by the sums. The Dragon, azure eyes piercing, waits patiently for Kaith to right himself; the elder brother finds his feet easily enough, though he is momentarily annoyed with himself for being so easily unbalanced by Lord Carcarron, by all accounts a half-weaned pup of a Daeva, frighteningly young to be at the helm of such power. "That is an impressive claim, my lord - but if you have rallied so many to your cause, then why are _we_ here? Surely your coffers must be strained enough, feeding and housing such a force, that two mercenaries are not worth the expense."

"Do you want us to join your army?" True to form, Erimes is leaning forward somewhat in his chair, his entire aura one of ferocious anticipation. Aelinian Carcarron could not have set his gambits with more effective bait, whence Erimes Karvahal is concerned.

But the Dragon unfolds his hands and smiles, a calculating look that sends a spike of adrenaline surging northward through Kaith's spine. "No. I want you to lead it."

If so much as a hair falls from their heads in the silence of that office, Kaith would hear it.

Carcarron leans back in his chair, his face carefully neutral, but clearly secure in the fact now that he has the brothers' undivided attention. "There are problems inherent in such a large force - one of which is that, despite my leadership, I am only one man, and even Daevas sworn to serve another will jockey constantly for position. Merely the act of finding a place in the hierarchy of factions causes ripples. Ripples cause waves, and waves will cause this army to tear itself apart long before we can achieve our goals. Therefore, I find myself in need of lieutenants, gentlemen - lieutenants that are eminently capable, and able to act with autonomy when necessary. Men and women who will rally their spirits, not inspire them to infighting." His black brows rise, azure gaze pinning the pair of them in place. "The pair of you are my first choices."

It makes Erimes suspicious, and he scowls, dark as a thundercloud on his tattooed face. Kaith's brother has his flaws, but no man is without his silver lining, and Erimes's is that his first thoughts are for the protection of Kaith. He snorts, shifts his weight, stares the Dragon in the face and does not apologize for the unrepentant snark in his tone. "Really. Us. Over all of these alleged Daevas you already have under your command? Am I supposed to be impressed?"

Kaith makes a small gesture with his near hand, reining in Erimes, just a touch. Their roles are beginning to reverse, now; it is Kaith who is intrigued, Erimes who is watchful. "This is a genuine offer, I think, brother. Do you even know who we _are_, my lord?"

Another rise of the lord of Carcarron's brow. "I would hardly have invited you into the center of my fortifications, if I did not." He flips aside the top sheet of the sheaf of papers before him, the gesture almost negligent; Kaith does not need to squint to see his name written there, upside-down in familiar script, and further down the page, his brother's. "Kaith Brightfeather, originally of the Duchy of Karvahal, in Ishalgen. A bluebird, the notes say, rather unusual. Once you Ascended, you left Karvahal for the first legion that would accept you, and spent your early years making a name for yourself as a Chanter in the Abyss. Your former commanders speak very highly of you and your poise under fire." Carcarron flashes a grim smile. "At least one such, General Lethe, has asked me to tell you that you are welcome back in her legion at any time, should you ever decide to abandon your mercenary ways and start acting like a civilized person again." A talon held up in deflection. "Her words, not mine."

Erimes snorts again, but the arrogance of his relaxed set is belied by the slow tensing of his frame; the both of them are waiting for the Dragon to go into detail about Kaith's parentage, of the Elyos that raped their mother in order to sire the bluebird upon her, of the undeniable fact that Kaith is of mixed blood and ungently bred to boot, while Erimes is not. But it does not come; Raum flips another page and continues on, as if the knowledge of the Chanter's halfbreed status does not concern him in the slightest, as if it is an extraneous detail to him, such as the color of his eyes or hair. "Erimes the Swift, born Erimes Karvahal, also of Karvahal in Ishalgen, an eagle. Formerly Brigadier General of the Shadowwing legion, before their disbandment - at your behest, I see. The most knowledgeable of your peers claim that you followed your brother into the sellswords, rather than the other way around. They also claim that you are eminently pragmatic in combat, and highly skilled with a blade." The Dragon abandons the papers at his desk, calm and cool where he sits in his chair; Kaith cannot help but wonder where he is going with this line of inquiry, but it is, of course, Erimes who charges headlong into the fray, heedless of the political mindfield that they have found themselves in.

"And do you know _what_ he is? His heritage?" Erimes gestures abruptly with his chin to his brother, hands fisting on his knees, a dangerous cast to the boyish planes of his face. "Do your papers tell you that? In the sense of _full disclosure_," he adds bluntly, intentionally trying to provoke the wrath of Lord Carcarron, to sniff out a reason to throw his offer back in his face, "I think you ought to know what you're getting into, because let me tell you, I won't stand for Kaith to be sniffed at just because _you_ found out after the fact."

A more honest show of filial devotion, Kaith could not have asked for, though perhaps he might need to impress upon his dearest brother the importance of not humiliating either himself or their host, just because he has the option to. The Dragon's poise is remarkable in the face of Erimes's rudeness, however; he merely regards Erimes coolly a moment, then flicks his azure gaze to Kaith. "May I ask you a question?"

"Certainly," says the Chanter, though he cannot help a certain sense of wariness.

"Are you capable?" There is no malice in it, no teasing, no snideness or the sneering that he has come to expect from those around him; it is a simple inquiry, calmly asked, and makes Kaith's brows fret as he searches for the barb beneath it, and finds nothing.

"Yes, my lord."

"Strong?" persists the Dragon, in the same manner of tone. "Stout of heart? Able and willing to command?"

"Of course," says Kaith sharply, affronted, his pride bridling at being questioned in such a way. "I could hardly have earned all that I have, were I not."

"Then what does it matter what your heritage is?" says Lord Carcarron, frankly and patiently, and Kaith and Erimes both are left staring at the young Daeva behind the desk, for the first time in a very long time caught entirely off their guards. The Dragon folds his hands one over the other, leans once more across the desk, his head slightly tilted and his words even and measured. "The sins of the father are not that of the son, Kaith Brightfeather. To hold you accountable for your birth would be to hold the sun accountable for setting. The moons accountable for rising." A dismissive gesture, the flick of one lifted set of talons. "It is a thing you had no say in the making of, nor a thing that you can alter. It holds no interest for me." He pauses; the lord has a sense of timing to rival any Chanter. "What _does_ hold interest is the man that you have become. You have grown into power despite all of Asmodae being arrayed against you. The deck, as the saying goes, was stacked far from in your favor, and yet you emerge, stronger than before. That speaks to me of a powerful will - a will I would have at my side, as my ally. You would bow to no one. And if any in all my legions speak against your bloodline," this last is sent not for Kaith's benefit, but arrows directly into the heart of Erimes's argument, the young lord of Carcarron's face stern and his eyes hard as flint, "then you may report them directly to me, and we will see if old Daevas cannot learn new tricks."

There is a span of heartbeats where none of them speak. "You're serious," breathes Erimes, and the Dragon nods solemnly, returning his gaze to the assassin.

"Deadly serious, eagle. There is no other kind, in time of war." He gestures for the closed door behind them, an expansive spread of hands that encompasses the keep as a whole. "I grant you free run of Carcarron and all the forces stationed here, if you like; you may inquire among the soldiers and Daevas yourself, even the commonfolk, to see the truth of what I claim. You are my guests, and as such you will be fed, housed, and treated with the utmost respect while you make your decision. It is not a light one, and I do not expect an answer without a chance for great thought. Any further questions that cannot be answered by my people, you may ask me directly."

It is uncomfortably like a dismissal, but the Dragon has a budding empire to run; as he and Erimes left the office, this time without their Carcarrese escort, that fact becomes more and more prominent in the forefront of his mind, and Kaith is unsure as to whether or not that is a positive thing. On the one hand, he wonders what Asphel himself might make of all of this, if he and his generals know the full extent of what the Dragon has wrought here - but on the other, the Dragon's offer speaks to his pride, whispering a sweet promise of recognition for all that he has done as a man, and not all that his sire had done to ruin him.

He has lived in the shadow of his mixed heritage for so long that he has almost forgotten the taste of sunlight, and now here into his previously uncomplicated existence is the Dragon, offering him room to grow.

Tempting - more than tempting.

They find themselves in the west courtyard, leaning against the stone walls with their arms folded across their chests, watching the soldiers drill again; like a moth to a flame, Erimes is drawn there, and he restrains himself from asking to join the fray only on his brother's behalf. "I don't know about this, Kaith."

The Chanter sends his gaze to Erimes's face, features schooled to blankness. "Do you doubt his intentions?"

"No, of course not," and the eagle scowls down at the tamped-earth floor of the yard, scuffs his bootheels in the snow-damp dust. "For love of Aion, he wants to sock Ariel herself in the face, and he very nearly has the strength to do so. I'd give my left arm to be a part of that." A curl of his lip, a sudden fang-flashing grimace that Kaith cannot identify until his brother speaks again. "It's you I'm worried about."

Kaith startles a little, and the smile is on his mouth before he can stop its flowering. "You doubt the genuineness of it, then."

"I doubt he has the pull to keep them all from slinging 'bastard' and 'halfbreed' in your face at every opportunity, that's what I doubt." Erimes comes off the wall, begins to pace; the campaigners nearby are calling to his blood, to the ferocity innate to his bones, and he defers it only for sake of Kaith, who is the only being that matters to him in all Atreia. Kaith would be properly touched, if his brother did not so much resemble a caged panther, marking out the bars of his prison with every step. "I'm sure he can assault Sanctum, and he may even take it - but I'm not as sure that he can keep his promises about giving you a place of honor. One that no one can usurp."

The words spill from him: "But brother, what if he _can?_"

Erimes stops his pacing, and he and Kaith stare at each other - and in that moment, they know that there is only one choice to make.


	2. Undisclosed Desires

This started out as a request from **Landing Failure** for some Jaya/Oros fluff. Unfortunately, when the muse struck, she struck while I was high on pain medication, and what came out was less fluff and more softcore porn. 9_9 (Excuse me while I adjust my halo...) Therefore there is a **steaminess warning** on this chapter. No reading at work, guys!

Music for this vignette is (obviously) Undisclosed Desires, by Muse. Timeline is circa ch.25 of the Lay.

* * *

There's a woman wearing crimson in the half-lit practice ring, shining like a beacon in the night, and I know without having to ask that she's waiting for me.

Back and forth, back and forth she paces, regular and smooth as a pendulum, armor clicking and clinking, the rivets shining silver through the scarlet enamel on the pieces of her platemail. Her gauntleted hands are clasped at the small of her back, her step measured, deliberate. Her face is helmed, her visor peaked in the front, smooth on the sides, marred only by two narrow slits for her gaze. I can't see so much as an inch of her beneath the metal suit.

She sees me, turns, lifts a hand, not quite in welcome and not quite in derision. I grin ferociously; she inclines her masked face in my direction. _Embraces_ the challenge.

I can't help but like her immediately.

She has no weapon, but that isn't a problem - I have two. Can't give her the Word, so the nameless blade instead, shining just as she is, only white instead of red. It comes from the scabbard smoothly with a noise like silk whispering across steel. I throw it to her hilt-first, over the gap between us, mountains-wide; she catches it one-handed, her fingers around the haft a fated thing, the blade seemingly crafted more for her grip than mine.

She charges. Fearless.

She's quick - quicker than I give her credit for. In seconds she's on me, and the Word diverts the white sword away from biting into my shoulder, my side, my leg, the blows flurried, skilled. No quarter given nor asked for, on either side, and I respect her more for it. The water-edge of the steel gleams with her light, flashes through my darkness.

We separate. A mark on my leathers, cosmetic, no more. A scratch in the bloodlike enamel of her armor. The Word is roused, woken; it can sense the woman in red, and though the Balaur-blade is not a thinking creature, it is old, and old magic accrues _awareness_. It does not speak, not in words, but it tells me nevertheless that she is Daeva, that there is no need for me to restrain myself; that I cannot kill the woman in crimson without intent. That I can relax my discipline, lower my guard, cut loose. Reach out. Stretch free.

I shake off its influence. The desires of the Word are the desires of the Balaur. I cannot afford to heed its counsel.

I cannot afford to lack vigilance.

No matter how much I might yearn to -

Bootsteps silent, I pace a sidelong ring around the woman in red; she turns upon the axis of her pride-of-place, facing me always, guarding now, defensive, as is her wont. One leg takes more weight than the other; I see that the relaxed one is painted with white flames that twine ivylike up her calf. The limp is slight, a killdeer-feint, bait I know too well to snatch at.

Silence, stillness. I can feel her eyes upon me through her helm, assessing. Studious.

Critical.

Mocking.

I move, wings in the night. She rises gloriously to meet me, and the tangle this time is prolonged, our crossguards locked, the Word and the white blade half-fused under our combined strength. She shoulders into me, brutish, but my feet are sure, my stance wide; she cannot unbalance me so easily. I free a hand from the hilt of the Word, scrabble at her armor, and under my fingertips a piece of the enameled metal tears away like bark from the wood-core, reveals the glittering fishscale sea of mail beneath, untarnished, pewter-bright -

She retreats. Blood drips from my cheek where she has scored me with her edge, rolls along my jaw to fall pat-pat-pattering against the stone at my feet.

The plate-piece is still in my hand, warm from her body, fragrant with polish. Negligent, I roll it off my fingers, over my shoulder, into darkness.

She thinks I'm cocky. Sloppy. Arrogant. I can see it in the way she stiff-legs to her former position like an angry cat, never once giving me her back. I slouch out my hip, play the part to the hilt; I want her angry. Want her not to think. Want her bleeding.

Just plain want her, when I'm honest enough with myself to admit it.

Another charge, angled, strange of balance. I know her limits almost as well as my own; when we disentangle again, another piece of her armor has fallen away, clanging to the floor. A rent gapes in my leathers, baring my throat to open air.

Her breath is harsh under her helmet, pluming like smoke in the cold air. I can almost see the defiance flashing in her eyes.

The Word writhes, seethes. Hungers. It wants her just as much as I do, and I cannot say with certainly that it wants her for different reasons.

We dance, and each of us knows intimately the steps. But she is tiring quickly; the next salvo, she is too slow to escape the chase. I reach, clawing, for her helmet; we tumble together to the floor, blades forgotten. My knee hits center of her breastplate, I have her pinned, and the scent of burning earth rises from the holes in her visor, acrid, intoxicating -

It distracts me, stirs things in my belly and my soul better left hidden, covered over. A moment of inattention; the heel of her gauntleted palm strikes upwards like an arrow, contacts with the lower side of my jaw, making my teeth meet so hard they near jar right out of my skull. We twist away from one another, stagger to our feet.

Hair lank with sweat and dark as rubies hangs from beneath her helm, flutters at her shouldercops.

Small victories.

I move again, swift as swift, and she never hesitates to meet me. The cataclysm cracks the white blade, near shatters it; the Word growls approvingly in the back of my mind, its appetite whetted now for the woman in red's destruction. We go down again, her legs tangled with mine, and she has rolled me onto my back when I sink my fingertips in the holes in her visor and rip her helmet free -

The Elyos prize beauty that is frail, fragile, delicate; among the Asmodians, to call a woman _delicate_ is to insult her prowess as a warrior.

The woman in red is anything but delicate.

A mercury-quick gaze, liquid-hot with intensity of emotion. Dusky grey skin, a stubborn tilt to a full mouth, sharp-angled brows and cheekbones a man could dash himself to pieces on. She shines under her skin like she swallowed the sun, and I catch her scent when her faded-red hair brushes my wounded cheek, curls prickling into the cut there. She is powerful. Defiant. Fierce. Undoubtedly Asmodian, every inch.

Impossibly beautiful. It hurts to look at her.

I don't know if I want to kiss her or bite her, and the Word answers, _both_.

Anger transmutes. Desire like I have never known leaps to my belly, sinks lower, red silk stitched in jagged lines on black broadcloth; I abandon the Word and its unwanted interference, drag her down with both hands into a clinch just as she is deciding not to pull away. There are fangs in that kissable mouth, I discover when she nicks my tongue, bites down hard on my lip - copper taste of my blood on both our tongues, kinah-bright, is unbelievably erotic, makes my head light and my groin throb - my hands buried in her hair, wet with exertion, and hers in mine. Aether thrills down my skin everywhere we touch.

It is exactly like kissing bottled lightning.

I kick us over with a well-placed press of boot to stone, settle my knee between her flancharded thighs. I cannot have enough of her skin; she is tearing my leathers to pieces in her haste to bare me to the air, and she rips one gauntlet off, then the other, so that she can smooth her callused, careworn hands across my chest. It makes me shiver, makes my pulse jump. The image of her on her back below me is a powerful one, and as I wonder how she would look there, naked to the skin and trembling with want, I know already that there is no stopping myself until I find out.

Her armor is an impediment, now, and I am unable to remove it quickly enough for either one of us. She moans softly into my hair when I bite down on the lobe of her ear, back arched to press her chest up into me, claws scrabbling at my back, digging in, goading me onward. At last I win a slender triangle of skin, stretching from her neck to navel; I press a kiss to the cup of her collarbones, featherlight, and she shudders beneath me, fists her hand in my hair hard enough it hurts, whispers my name like a prayer to the god that has long forsaken us.

Begging and commanding in the same breath.

Both sides of who I am, the dark and the light, growl hungrily together, purposes united for the first time that I can remember.

I lower my head to the smooth dusky side of the column of her throat, and when I set my teeth to mark her mine, her claws leave scarlet furrows in my back, a price I gladly pay for the wine of her blood in my mouth.

xxxxx

I wake, aching and unfulfilled.

The dream clings like smoke; for long moments I lay there, tangled in the sheets, reliving the fleeting moments that already begin to fade from waking memory; when I arrive upon the face of my tormentor, however, cold flows and flowers along my sweat-drenched limbs.

An unforgivable sin, even one dredged up in the heat of dreams.

I am awake long before the sun rises. Long before that, pacing long rows in the dark of my suite, I have convinced myself that I do not want her, and never have. That it is a silly dream, and the dreams of Daevas are not always filled with truth.

Blasphemy and lies, even as they are formed in my mind, but without them, I will never look her in the eye again.

Not the first such dream. And not the last.

Never, never the last.


End file.
